


Commitment

by Dee_Laundry



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-22
Updated: 2007-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-16 03:24:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Laundry/pseuds/Dee_Laundry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Much too much; Wilson takes a break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Commitment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nightdog_Barks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/gifts).



> Takes place about two weeks after episode 3-14 “Insensitive”; spoilers to that point and deviates from canon after that. Beta by the awesome [](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/profile)[**daisylily**](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/). For [](http://nightdog-barks.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_barks**](http://nightdog-barks.livejournal.com/) , who has always feared that Wilson will break down.

It had been a terrible week for House: late February gloom, unsolved questions, annoyances both major and minor, mortal coils shed left and right, and a notable lack of successes. The spectral ghost of Wilson’s migraine on Monday had seemed to linger over the rest of the week, and he’d been at his most irksome, handing out a soapbox lecture at every turn.

House had finally ducked him and fled. It was only because it was not Wilson’s number on the caller ID that House bothered to pick up the phone that Thursday evening.

“Um, sir?” the nasal alto inquired.

Too tentative for a telemarketer, too old for Girl Scout cookies. House contemplated just hanging up, but tiredly responded, “Yes?”

“My name is Darlene; I work at the Plainsboro Garden Inn. We have a guest here named James Wilson?”

House shifted in his seat; he had no energy for this. “Let me know when you stop spouting random facts and actually get to something that pertains to me.”

“Sir, Mr. Wilson, he’s not doing very well tonight.”

Wilson had looked washed out that afternoon when House had glimpsed him from his Clinic hiding spot. “Is he dying?”

“I – don’t think so.”

“Probably the flu. He’s a physician; he can heal himself.” He shifted the phone in preparation for hanging it up.

“It’s not the flu, sir,” the nasal Darlene nasal-ed, “but I think he needs someone to take care of him. I got your phone number out of his cell, and that’s why I’m calling you.”

“I’m not a hand-holding type. I’m sure there are dozens of people listed in his phone more caring than I am. Call them.”

“You’re the only person in his cell’s phone list, sir,” Darlene said quietly. “I know I’m probably bothering you when you’re busy, so I’m sorry, but this situation is really… not good. My manager wants to call the police, but Mr. Wilson has always been nice to me, gone out of his way. I think he deserves to have a friend help him tonight and not go to jail.”

In spite of himself, House was intrigued. “Why would he go to jail for being sick?”

“He’s not, um, sick in his body, sir. But he’s disturbing the other guests, and my manager’s really about to call the cops unless I can tell him someone is coming right away to take care of Mr. Wilson.” Cameron and her book on effective influencing had nothing on Darlene.

“All right. I’ll come.” House pushed up off the couch and looked around for his keys.

“That’s a relief; thanks. Do you need directions?”

“No, I know where you are.”

* * *

Darlene was twenty pounds lighter and more than thirty years younger than House had pictured her. She also looked vaguely familiar. Trying to place her, he had an image of thick paper with a white border – it was a photograph. Darlene looked like a woman he’d seen in an old photo, holding a baby. More details danced out of reach and then evaporated when Darlene spoke.

“Thank you for coming, sir. His room is on the fourth floor.”

They sidestepped a fireplug of a man with a gold nametag and a deeply etched scowl.

“Taking care of it, Mr. Allen!” Darlene called as the elevator doors closed.

“What did you say was wrong with Wilson?”

“I’d prefer you see for yourself, sir.”

He heard for himself the moment the elevator doors opened. Wilson’s “singing” could be heard all the way down the hall.

“He wasn’t this loud before. Mr. Allen’s probably gotten more complaints.”

“I’d say so,” House replied, grimacing.

“Drive My Car” was in full swing when they got to Wilson’s door. Knocking, Darlene called loudly, “Mr. Wilson?”

“Beep, beep. Beep, beep. Yeah!” being the only reply, Darlene went ahead and opened the door with her passkey.

House had expected the room to be a disaster, but it looked like any hotel room. The only item even remotely out of place was a mini-bottle of Maker’s Mark square in the center of the desk. _Neatest drunk ever_. House rolled his eyes.

The air was a little cold, presumably to accommodate how Wilson was dressed: jeans, sweatshirt, winter jacket, and scarf.

“Going out somewhere?” House inquired during a momentary lull in Wilson’s serenade.

“Nope,” Wilson replied, at a normal volume. He didn’t seem surprised at all to see the two of them in his hotel room. Keeping up his slow pacing, he continued, “Just got back. You’re wearing the wrong shirt.”

Keeping his eyes on Wilson, House quietly asked Darlene, “Hasn’t he been here since you called me?”

“Uh huh. All evening, actually, since about five-fifteen,” she replied. She was bravely staying in the room but had ducked behind House.

“Wrong shirt,” Wilson repeated. “It should be olive.”

“I thought you liked me in blue.”

“You shouldn’t have changed.” Wilson’s voice was growing loud again. “Olive, olive, olive!” He screamed the last word and with breathtaking speed snatched away House’s cane.

“You never change! Why would you change that?” He swung the cane like a baseball bat and smashed the room’s large mirror.

“Mr. Wilson!” Darlene screamed as the shards rained down, far enough away from all of them, fortunately. House’s mind was ticking through drugs, legal and not, that could cause this kind of behavior.

Wilson turned toward them and smiled peacefully. “It’s OK, Darlene. No one’s hurt. Look.” He held out the cane, balancing it lightly on his palm. “House’s cane isn’t even hurt.”

When she reached for it tentatively, Wilson snatched it back. “Mine now,” he sing-songed, and carried the cane with him into the bathroom.

“Darlene, honey,” his voice rang out, “do you have any mascara?”

“Um, what?” She was shaking, but sticking with them. House was grateful for the backup. His mind was still listing: cocaine, PCP, amphetamine, methamphetamine, dextroamphetamine, methylphenidate, L-DOPA, anticholinergics…

“Mascara, Darlene.” Wilson poked his head out of the bathroom and looked so much himself that House almost laughed.

Darlene took a deep breath. “I have some in my purse.”

“Oh, no, honey. You don’t want to share your mascara and risk conjunctivitis. It’s nasty. I bet they have some in the gift shop downstairs, though, so run and get me some, OK?”

“OK,” she replied hesitantly.

Wilson had gone back in the bathroom. “Brown if they have it, but black’s fine if they don’t.”

When Darlene had fled, House squared his shoulders and prepared to get this all under control. He limped over to the bathroom, missing his cane every step, and walked in. Wilson was contemplating his face in a lighted makeup mirror that pulled away from the wall. His features were so magnified as to be distorted.

“Wilson, did you take anything?”

“No, that’s you. You’re the one who takes.” Wilson poked at a blemish on his chin. “I’m the one who gives. And who walks away. Walking, walking, slap of rubber on wood, on concrete. I don’t think I even know how to take any more.”

Wilson pushed his nose from one side to the other, inspecting the skin.

“Pay attention!” House snapped.

“That’s you, too,” Wilson replied. “You pay a lot of attention to a lot of things – scrutiny. That’s a funny word to say. Scroo-tuh-nee. You pay a lot of scrutiny, but you never really notice, do you?”

House slowed down his speech, enunciating each word clearly. “Did you take anything?”

Wilson frowned. “You’re repeating yourself.”

“I’m asking about drugs!”

“Drugs!” cried Wilson happily, clapping his hands together and turning toward House. “That’s a good idea. Give me some of yours!”

House stepped back and covered his pockets. “I don’t have anything.”

“Liar. Everybody lies.” Wilson gave his face one last glance in the mirror and then reached into a drawer on the vanity.

“Or maybe,” he continued, “you already took them all. Yeah, that’s what happened.”

Proudly, he showed House his find: a tube of lipstick. “Picked it just for you,” he confessed in a whisper. “It’s the same color Stacy used to wear.”

House had been clinging to a small hope that this was just drunkenness, but nope. Definitely drugs, or some kind of mental breakdown. Or both.

“I never told you I ran into Julie,” Wilson commented. He had opened the lipstick and was waving it back and forth in front of the large mirror over the vanity. He seemed to be drawing on his reflection, although the tube wasn’t touching anything. Then suddenly he focused back on the makeup mirror and brought the lipstick to his lips.

“When did you see her?”

“It doesn’t matter.” In between phrases, Wilson was applying the lipstick, from the center of each lip to the corner. “She was with a new friend from her new country club, and I’m pretty sure I paid the entrance fee for that in the divorce, but that’s not really all that important to the story. The thing was, she introduced me to her new friend – who had great tits; you would’ve liked them – as her whore of an ex-husband.” The lipstick was on thick and garish. Wilson reached for a tissue and began to blot.

“Later that made me laugh so hard,” he continued. “You know why?”

“Because she’s a heartless bitch who doesn’t know what she’s talking about?”

“Because whores get paid!” Wilson threw back his head and laughed loudly, for what seemed like a year. When the laughter died down, he went on. “Whores get money for having sex. I spread my legs like a, well, whore is the only simile I can think of right now.” He frowned, pouting, and his lipstick smeared a little. He blotted and began re-applying it.

“If I had a different simile, that’d be more powerful, but anyway, the point is, I spread my legs nice and wide and give it up every single time. And I never, ever get paid. I’m worse than a whore, stupider than a whore. I’m the sluttiest slut that ever slutted.”

House was tired. He didn’t want to hear any more; didn’t want to think; didn’t want to acknowledge the worry and fear that was beating in time with his heart. “Wilson,” he tried, “Julie was just trying to hurt you.”

“The truth hurts!” Wilson chuckled and then stilled, his eyes growing wide. “Ooh, ooh, I got it! That’s why you don’t believe in lies. You want to use the truth as your weapon, your twisted dagger. Stab everybody until they’re in just as much pain as you are. Yah, listen to me, how good I am at this. I’m a philosopher-king, that’s what I am. A slutty, slutty philosopher-king.” He leaned forward and rested his head against the large mirror, and House feared for one very scary moment that Wilson would either slam his head into the mirror or start to cry.

“Wilson!” he yelled, just to snap the self-immersion.

Wilson practically sang his next words: “He’s gone.” He straightened up and puckered his lips a few times, watching himself in the mirror. “But I’m here. You can call me Jimmy.”

The voice sounded totally different, and they were definitely not in Kansas now. “How old are you, Jimmy?”

Wilson frowned and glared at him, perturbed. “You know how old I am, House. Don’t ask stupid questions.”

Darlene’s voice floated in just then. “Mr. Wilson? I bought you some mascara, but they only had black.”

A thrust to House’s chest, and he was forced to stagger back out into the hotel room.

“Sit,” Wilson commanded, pushing House onto the bed. Then he beckoned Darlene with one curled finger. “Come on in, sweetie; help me put my face on.”

They disappeared into the bathroom together. House listened to them with one ear while he called Foreman.

“Your friend’s real nice,” Darlene commented.

Wilson laughed. “He’s not real nice, but I love him anyway.”

“So you two are–?”

“Together? No. We’d make a cute couple, though, wouldn’t we?”

“I’m not sure anyone would call him cute. Sexy, maybe. Forceful, if you like that type.”

Foreman wasn’t answering his home phone.

“Him?” Wilson asked. “He’s a pussycat. Underneath. Way, way underneath. In fact, so far underneath, the rest of him might have squished the pussycat by now. You know how diamonds are made?”

“Made? I thought they pulled them out of the ground, like mining in a cave.”

Foreman wasn’t answering his cell phone.

“That’s right,” Wilson said. He seemed to be enjoying himself now, enjoying teaching new things to Darlene. “But before they get in the cave, nature makes them. Diamonds actually start out as coal, but then over a long time, millennia, the coal gets compressed by the pressure and weight of the earth and it turns into diamonds.”

“That’s interesting, that something dark and dusty turns into something so pretty.”

“Yeah. So I think House’s pussycat went through something similar, got all compressed and changed, and now it’s a hissing semi-feral alley cat.”

House punched in the numbers for Foreman’s pager with a little bit more force than necessary.

“Well, if it’s only semi-feral, there’s some hope for it, isn’t there? My sister takes in stray cats, and if they’re not too far gone, then with a lot of love and patience you can gentle them into good house pets.”

“I guess you’re right.” Wilson paused. House most definitely did not want to think what Wilson’s face looked like now. “You’re a good girl, Darlene; you shouldn’t let your boyfriend treat you so badly.”

“I don’t any more. I broke up with him.”

“That’s excellent. I’m very proud of you. Some day I’ll be brave enough to walk in your footsteps.”

Finally, House had Foreman on the phone. He gave him the bare minimum of details and ordered him to bring Ativan when he came. Then House chanced a look into the bathroom.

Wilson caught his eyes in the mirror. The mascara over-emphasized his eyes but was nowhere near as garish as the lipstick. “Darlene,” Wilson ordered, “it’s time for you to go home. I appreciated you staying with me, but your shift’s over; you should clock out.”

Looking concerned, Darlene replied, “Are you sure you’ll be OK, Mr. Wilson?”

He patted her hand and smiled. “It’s not your concern; you’ve done enough. I don’t think I’ll see you again, so best of luck and please take care of yourself.”

“Why won’t you see me again?” She was near tears.

“Oh, because I’ll be checking out of the hotel, of course. Worn out my welcome, and I really should go anyway. Goodbye now.” Dismissing her entirely, Wilson returned to contemplating his face in the mirror.

As Darlene came out of the bathroom, head lowered, that old photograph flashed through House’s mind again. Top photo in the blue box Wilson liked to keep in his nightstand. Probably in storage now. But it was only his mind playing a trick on him; Darlene didn’t really look much like Wilson’s mother.

She silently handed House his cane, and he walked her to the door.

“Sir –” she began.

“I’m going to take care of him,” he reassured her. “We’ll be out of here in a few minutes, and I’ll make sure he’s OK.”

“Thank you,” she whispered and headed down the hall.

Wilson started singing again, thankfully much quieter than before, and more in tune as well. “I Want to Hold Your Hand” wasn’t that bad a song.

House had to reassess how he felt after the twenty-fifth repetition of the chorus. Because Wilson was relatively calm, House had let him stay in the bathroom, just checking briefly in on him every few minutes. Wilson ignored him, and there had been no other incidents. Still, he was grateful when Foreman knocked on the door.

As he was letting Foreman in, Wilson emerged from the bathroom. He was still wearing the same clothes, including the coat and scarf, but his hair was freshly wet, and he seemed to have added another coat of both mascara and lipstick.

Kind and patient soul that he was, Foreman jumped right in with the questions. “Why are you wearing makeup?”

“To look pretty,” Wilson replied with all sincerity, batting his eyelashes before walking to the room’s window and pulling back the drapes. “It’s Christmas Eve; I want to do something special.”

As Foreman stared across the room at Wilson, House reached out for his bag. “Let me hold that. I want you to give him a neuro exam.”

Looking out the window, Wilson was humming a Christmas carol and swaying. Foreman turned toward House and hissed, “He doesn’t need a neuro exam; he needs a psych bed!”

“We got my brother a psych bed,” said Wilson vacantly.

“What?” Foreman asked.

“We got my brother a psych bed. He didn’t sleep in it, though. Four days and he didn’t sleep. They gave him meds but it didn’t work and he escaped. Walked away and away and away and now he’s dead.”

 _Wilson. God, Wilson._ House leaned forward. “You don’t know that –”

“He’s dead.” Wilson turned back toward the room, but he was looking at nothing. “I loved him more than any person I knew, and I couldn’t help him. Got him a bed he never slept in and it didn’t help one bit.”

“Jimmy,” House called.

Wilson suddenly crossed to Foreman and grabbed his arm. “And then I met someone I loved even more than David. I didn’t think that was possible, but yeah. And he took everything I had to give, and things I didn’t think I could give, and things I didn’t even know I had. He took it all and now I have nothing. But that’s OK, except – now he’s dead, too. Killed himself on Christmas Eve. Bottle of oxycodone and bottle of Maker’s Mark. I think he’d say he didn’t mean it, but what does that matter? He didn’t even love me enough to live.”

“Wilson,” said House, but he was soundly ignored.

“There are ghosts everywhere,” Wilson sighed, and the energy seemed to drain completely out of him. “I’m pretty tired now. Can I have that bed?”

Foreman replied consolingly, “Yeah. I’ll have to call and arrange some things, but yeah.”

“Wilson,” House implored, and again Wilson looked right through him.

“Let’s go,” Wilson said, moving wearily out the door with Foreman close behind him. House sank onto the bed and dropped his face into his hands.

* * *

House was at the front desk being subjected to Mr. Allen’s third iteration of “this hotel has a reputation to uphold” – albeit at a lower volume now that a valid credit card had been produced – when Foreman called.

“How is he?” House asked immediately.

“He was quiet in the car, subdued but lucid and responsive during admission, and now he’s asleep.”

“Sedated?” House signed the receipt, grabbed back his credit card, and gave the fireplug one last glare.

“No, he fell asleep on his own. Until the tox screen comes back, they don’t want to give him anything if they don’t have to.”

“You washed his face before he went to bed, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

House heaved a silent sigh of relief. Wilson didn’t need a visual reminder in the morning. “Good. I checked the hotel room thoroughly; no drugs and he didn't drink anything from the minibar. I rented the room for one more night so Chase can come tomorrow and search again. Along with the tox screen, get an STD panel and check electrolytes, too.”

“It’s a psychiatric hospital, House; they’ve been through this before.”

House glared at the phone even though Foreman couldn’t see him. “You’re not at our hospital?”

“No. I checked Wilson into Mercer Psych. An old professor of mine, Kay Saltzman, is their head of neuropsych. She’s great.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“No, just go home, House. Wilson’s asleep, and there’s nothing more to do until we get some test results.”

“I – Yeah, OK. Meet me at Mercer at eight tomorrow; I want you in on the testing. And Foreman, you know what I’ll do to you if any of the details of this get out.”

“Patient privacy,” Foreman replied firmly. “No details are going anywhere.”

After House hung up, the same long list of conditions that could cause an episode like Wilson’s kept repeating in his mind in one long endless loop – _…aine, brain tumor, hypoglycemia, lupus, leprosy, syphilis, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, depression, brain injury, electrolyte disorders, amphe…_ – for the rest of the night. When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed that Wilson was wandering in traffic. Nancy Drew tried to help, her red hair bobbing, but House was rooted to the spot. When he woke his leg was throbbing.

Foreman was waiting for him at Mercer Psych, and they went into Wilson’s room together. Wilson was sitting up in bed, picking at a rather limp-looking breakfast.

“Hey,” House called and stole a few Cheerios.

Wilson’s eyes widened as he glanced at House, but he quickly focused instead on Foreman. “Good morning. Thanks for helping me out last night.”

“I was glad to do it,” Foreman replied. “How much do you remember?”

Wilson smiled sheepishly. “Enough to be embarrassed about it.”

“A lot’s happened in the past several months,” Foreman replied, throwing a quick glare at House. House, sitting on the second, unoccupied bed, ignored him.

“A lot of stressful events,” Foreman repeated. “Did you meet Dr. Saltzman yet?”

Shaking his head, Wilson sipped at his milk. “Not yet.”

“Kay’s great: level-headed, easy to talk to.” The entire time they’d been in the room, both House and Foreman had been watching Wilson and the monitors carefully. Wilson looked to be getting more and more anxious; he wasn’t used to being the patient, House knew.

Breaking an uneasy silence, Foreman said, “I’m going to go find Dr. Saltzman and check on some lab results. I’ll see you later, all right?”

“Sure.” As Foreman walked out into the hall, Wilson put on the fakest brave smile House had ever seen.

“We’re going to get you fixed up, no problem,” said House, as he stole more food from Wilson’s tray.

Wilson closed his eyes. He actually looked pained, rather than just exasperated, and it made House a little nervous.

“I’m not going to say anything about yesterday, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s like when you’re sleeping or you have a fever, you can’t really be held responsible, right?”

A broad hand across his face, Wilson began to whisper. House leaned closer and heard, “Go away. Go away. Go away.”

“Wilson, hey. It’s all right.”

Tensing tighter, Wilson chanted a little louder, his voice very stressed: “Go away. You’re not real. Go away.”

New hallucinations? Crap. “What’s not real?” House asked, just as a short, brisk woman knocked briefly on the door and then stepped into the room.

“Dr. Wilson, hello. I’m Dr. Kay Saltzman, director of the neuropsychiatry department here. I’ll also be your attending.”

After shaking his head, Wilson looked at her and replied, “Good morning. I’m… not glad to meet you.” He rubbed the back of his neck roughly.

Saltzman smiled. “I can understand that. We’re going to do some testing, and you and I will talk in depth after that, but is there anything you want to tell me now?”

Wilson hesitated for a moment, but plunged in, more honest than House could’ve been. “Frankly, I’m, well, scared about what’s happened. I remember, I think, everything that happened last night, and if so, I was clearly delusional and hallucinating.” He took a deep breath. “And the hallucinations are continuing this morning.”

“Yes?” Saltzman was maintaining a professional detachment. House was scared shitless, and he shifted to get closer to Wilson.

“I’m –” Wilson paused, bit his lower lip, and then sighed. “I’m seeing and hearing, very vividly, someone who I know is dead.”

“Who?” House asked. “Your brother?”

Wilson glared at House briefly and turned back to Saltzman. “It’s a friend of mine. A good friend – my best friend – who died a few months ago. Greg House.”

Stunned, House rocked back. Wilson still thought he was dead?

“Do you see him in the room now?” Saltzman asked.

Wilson stared at his breakfast for a moment, clearly embarrassed. “Yes.”

“How does it make you feel to have him in the room?”

 _Psychobabble crap_. House rolled his eyes.

“So nervous,” Wilson replied. “I wish he’d go. It’s painful to have so strong a reminder.”

House was wracking his brain, trying to remember if he’d ever heard of a patient who was delusional about having hallucinations. Nothing was coming to mind. He looked back at Wilson, who seemed almost on the verge of tears.

“You want me to step out, Jimmy? All right, I will.” He grabbed his cane and walked out, but stayed close by. He had to talk to Saltzman about this.

By the time Saltzman came out several minutes later, House had called Cuddy to give her the basics; Cameron and Chase to give them even fewer of the basics; and Foreman, who was now on his way back to Princeton-Plainsboro.

Saltzman’s expression was professional but firm. “You're Dr. House, yes? I can’t violate doctor-patient confidentiality.”

He had no time or patience for this today. They had a lot to do to get Wilson diagnosed and fixed. “In addition to being practically family, I’m his physician and his medical proxy. So spill.”

“He’s firmly convinced that you died on Christmas Eve and that he is now hallucinating your presence.”

“That’s a pretty substantial delusion there. What was on the tox screen?”

“Clear. A very low blood alcohol content, consistent with maybe one or two drinks consumed early in the evening, and no drugs at all.” Saltzman’s hands were at her sides; her gaze was direct. House wondered if she’d deliberately studied body language to convey “trust me.”

“You did an STD panel, too, right?”

“You’re thinking syphilis? No. No STDs.”

“Nothing at all?” Housed smirked. “Minor miracle. So we’re left with head trauma, tumor, electrolyte disorders –”

Politely but firmly, Saltzman interrupted. “This does happen to be my specialty; I know the possibilities and we’ll test for all of them. Dr. Wilson’s condition may also be purely psychological. I want to spend some more time talking to him, but right now I’m thinking an emotional trauma exacerbated an underlying depression. I don’t know his history, of course, but so far it seems to be a monothematic delusion, solely related to his conviction that you overdosed and died on Christmas Eve. What actually happened that night?”

“He –” _She needs to know; you have to tell her._ “I did overdose, and Wilson found me on the floor of my apartment.”

“He rescued you.”

“He left me there. It’s not what it sounds like, though. I was conscious; I was fine. I needed the kick in the pants of him not cleaning up after me.”

“OK,” Saltzman said noncommittally. “I still can see why that might cause some guilt for Dr. Wilson.”

“But that was two months ago.” House shook his head. “And he and I moved past that, and all the things that led up to it. So why did he have this problem now?”

A nurse came up to them with papers for Saltzman to sign. She spent an extra moment looking at one of them and then asked the nurse to wait.

“Dr. House, we’ll figure out the why, but I’m more concerned with getting therapy started. I sense there’s a lot he needs to work through.” She nodded and walked down the hall with her nurse.

Sinking into a chair, House decided to give Wilson a few more minutes alone. This was a lot to process.

* * *

After some reflection, House decided to take the bull by the horns and challenge Wilson directly on his delusion. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps Saltzman wouldn’t agree with his course of action, but screw her. Wilson was a reasonable man; he’d listen to reason.

“OK,” House began as he barged back into Wilson’s room.

Wilson was dressed in some of the clothes House had brought, and he had tidied up the remnants of breakfast. He flinched away from House. “You’re not real. You can’t be, because you’re dead. Buried before New Year’s.”

“Then why are you talking to me?”

Breathing deeply, Wilson walked away and began looking out the window. “I’m not. I’m talking to myself. You’re a manifestation.”

House scoffed. “You’re even worse at the psychobabble than Saltzman is. And you can ask her, you know. Ask her whether I’m here or not, and she’ll tell you that I am.”

“I have to let go of you. This is the worst kind of denial.” Wilson shook his head sadly, and House snorted.

“You don’t have to let go of me, because I’m not dead.”

“Well, I don’t want you to be dead, so of course you’re going to say that.” Wilson seemed to be losing his fear as their argument continued.

“But remember Tritter prosecuting me? The hearing?”

“They went through your case, trying to drum up charges against the hospital for letting you have access to the oxy. It was ridiculous; the judge dismissed it.”

“I cured the firefighter with male menopause who turned out to have a meningioma.”

“That was your team. I think it was Chase who came up with the idea, after they’d fried the guy’s brain. And after he’d choked Cameron. That was, um –” Wilson seemed to be searching for the right word. “Rough on her.”

House almost smirked at how Wilson’s face held twinges of a smile that was threatening to break out. But they had more important ground to cover. “What about me going into rehab? I apologized to you.”

“Yeah.” Wilson rolled his eyes. “Like either of those would ever happen.”

House grunted in frustration. “I counseled that rape patient, remember?”

“Uh huh. They’d let you anywhere near a woman who’d been raped. Right. That was Cameron.”

“Gypsy kid with the toothpick!”

“Foreman.”

“CIPA girl with the tapeworm!”

“Chase.”

House tapped his cane on the ground, bouncing it higher and higher as his frustration increased. “You and I had breakfast on Valentine’s Day.”

“Yeah, and then we made sweet, sweet love on a bed covered with rose petals.” Wilson’s face now seemed to be stuck on perma-smirk. It was getting utterly annoying.

“You schmuck, I’m alive. How can I prove it to you?”

Wilson regarded him skeptically. “Not with those lame-ass recollections. It’d have to be something more tangible.”

Putting aside his cane, House limped awkwardly over to Wilson, stopping only a few short inches away. Wilson regarded him with simple mild curiosity – their spheres of personal space were dramatically smaller with each other than with anyone else. House sighed to himself _the things I do for you, Jimmy_ , and then hugged his friend hard.

Wilson gasped at the sudden contact but quickly relaxed. His arms tentatively reached up and around House’s back. His fingers splayed across House’s shoulder blades, and he pulled closer.

“All right, that’s enough,” House grumbled and pulled away. “See? I’m here; I’m real; I’m alive. We’ll figure out what caused that episode last night, and you and I will be back watching crappy television on my couch in no time.”

Wilson nodded. “OK. That’ll be great. I want to talk to Dr. Saltzman. Could you go find her for me? And then you should go to work. Cuddy’s going to kill you for being late.”

“Yeah, yeah, all right. I’ll stop by this afternoon.”

Wilson seemed happy as House left.

* * *

Dr. Saltzman knocked on Wilson’s door later that morning. Wilson was smiling broadly as she entered. “You seem to be in a good mood.”

“I shouldn’t be, I suppose. But the most interesting thing happened this morning after you left. I saw House again, but there was something more this time.”

“Yes?”

“Tactile hallucinations! I imagined that House hugged me, and I could actually feel him under my fingers. I knew it was a hallucination, of course. One, because he’s dead, and two, because he never hugged me when he was alive, why would he start now?

“It’s really fascinating, you know, when I distance myself from that fact that I’m the one having them. It has to be a brain tumor. I don’t see what else it could be. If House were here, he’d pull something bizarre out of his rear, of course, but we should probably just go with the brain tumor theory. Let’s get Dr. Foreman involved. He worked with House; on the off chance it’s not a tumor, he might just come up with something clever.”

Saltzman nodded. “I think that’s a good idea. I’d like to share the notes from our sessions with his team, if that’s all right with you. You’ll have to sign a privacy waiver.”

“Sure, for Foreman’s team. It’s a good idea – give them a fuller picture of what’s going on. And my analysis of it, too. Hm. Almost like being in a differential session.” He chuckled sadly.

* * *

  
Foreman hung up the phone. “That was Dr. Saltzman. Wilson’s decided he has a brain tumor. With a delusion of this magnitude, it’s certainly a possibility. I’ll confirm the MRI for this afternoon.”

“I don’t think it’s a tumor,” House commented. “The delusions are gone; he knows I’m alive. It wouldn’t hurt to check anyway, so go ahead and make sure it’s reserved.”

“Saltzman said Wilson agreed to release the notes from his therapy sessions. She’s faxing some over now.”

Several pages had already come through; House snatched them off the fax machine and started reading. “Shit!” The anger poured off him. “Shit, shit, shit!” Cameron ducked as House’s cane ricocheted off the glass wall.

“That manipulative bastard,” House gritted through his teeth, and flung himself into the nearest chair to continue reading.

Cameron retrieved the new pages that had come through and placed them on the table next to House. She let her hand hover for a moment over his shoulder, but thinking better of it, she refrained from touching him. “What is it?” she asked quietly.

“Wilson lied to me. He said he was convinced I was real, but then he told Saltzman I’m not.” Still perusing the pages, distracted, House frowned.

She didn’t really expect an answer to her question, but decided to chance it. “You said he was manipulating you – what did he get you to do?”

“Hug him. That bastard,” House said, and turned his back.

* * *

Tests and more tests. MRI, nothing. PET scan, nothing. Electrolyte panel, nothing. Tests for poisons, tests for more drugs, tests for this, tests for that, and nothing, nothing, nothing.

The chances of it being purely medical and therefore easily curable were going down every moment, and still House’s mind raced. This had to be fixed.

Being dead to Wilson did have some interesting consequences, though. Apparently the hug had emboldened the man, because he began demanding more contact. As they watched TV together that evening, he pulled House’s arms around himself like a blanket. He asked for a goodnight kiss to his forehead, and to House’s own astonishment he complied.

The next morning, even more. A hug hello, Wilson’s hand on House’s back as they walked, a hand on a knee as they sat together in Wilson’s room. It was strange that it didn’t seem that strange.

“House, I want to go home.”

House patted him, guiltily. He should have figured this out by now. “We’re working on getting you out of here.” His next thought came rolling out of his mouth before he could stop it. “But when you say home, what are you thinking?”

Wilson looked at him quizzically. “What?”

“Julie got the house, and you’ve checked out of the hotel. So when you say you want to go home, where are you picturing? Your parents’ place?”

“No. It’s –” Wilson stopped abruptly and looked away.

“Where?”

“I don’t want to tell you.” He ducked his head.

“Why?”

A quick snort. “It sounds silly. Sappy.”

House grabbed Wilson’s hand and tugged gently before letting it drop. “Come on. If you can’t tell me, who can you tell?”

With a sigh, Wilson looked up at House. He held the gaze a moment before replying, “When I picture home, I picture – you.”

“Me?” That was most definitely not the answered he’d expected.

“221B’s okay, or anywhere else is fine, too, as long as you’re there.” Wilson shook his head. “See why I didn’t want to say it?”

Wilson looked out across the room, and House wished for the distraction of the TV or music, or anything.

“As long as I’m telling you how I feel…” Wilson continued. “I have this impulse right now. I want you to kiss me. On the lips.”

House pushed back into his chair. “Wilson…”

“Nothing sexual; no tongue,” Wilson said quickly. “Just a quick kiss of affection. Didn’t your father ever kiss you on the lips?”

“No.”

“I guess that explains a lot.” Wilson smiled impishly, and House gave him a brief peck.

The smile broadened, and Wilson’s eyes gained a new sparkle, the weariness gone or at least temporarily forgotten. He squeezed House’s hand twice, then pulled back.

“Thanks.” Wilson got up and moved to the room’s small closet. “I have a session with Saltzman in a few minutes; I should get ready.”

Ever since Wilson had shown him the lipstick, a question had been drifting through House’s mind. Truth be told, that question had been floating under the surface for some time. Since Wilson was pushing the boundaries of their relationship to get what he wanted, House was going to push, too. “Are you in love with me?”

Wilson turned back toward House, the shirt he’d taken from the closet still dangling from his hand. His eyes were distant, contemplating. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I think about you a lot. I worry about you, care about your welfare more than my own, miss you when you’re not with me.”

Leaning forward in his chair, House pressed on. It was strange, after so many years of avoidance, to have a conversation with this much candor. Being “dead” was turning out to be very liberating. “You said you love me even more than you loved David.”

“It’s true.” Wilson nodded. “More than anyone in the world. More than my wives, certainly. I was in love with each of them, and it doesn’t compare at all to what I feel for you.”

House leaned back again. “Maybe you’re confused about what it means to be in love. Maybe what you felt for them wasn’t being in love.”

“Maybe. It doesn’t really matter, though, does it? They’re gone, and you’re –” Wilson stopped abruptly. He’d clearly been about to say that House was gone, too, but held back, still intent on pretending that he thought House was alive.

House decided to ignore it. The fiction was serving its purpose. “Are you going to ask me if I’m in love with you?”

“No,” Wilson said firmly. “It won’t change how I feel, so why bother?”

He held up his shirt and shook it, the way someone might ring a hand bell. “I’m going to change now, so can you go?”

Asking a hallucination, albeit one you’re pretending you think is a real person, for privacy. Very interesting. House was happy to oblige: it was one of the easier requests Wilson had made over the past two days, and besides, he needed to do some more research.

“I’ll see you later, Wilson.”

Halfway out the door, House was startled by another hug from Wilson, but he stopped and relaxed into the embrace. He patted Wilson’s arms as they let go, and nodded as Wilson quietly said, “Goodbye.”

* * *

House was at his office desk, re-reading the reports from Mercer for a tenth time. Nothing. There was nothing there. _Wilson feels guilty about Grace_ ; ho hum. _Wilson hates Tritter_ ; big frickin’ surprise.

When his phone rang, he didn’t bother looking at the caller ID. “What?” he barked.

“Dr. House, I have Dr. Wilson’s brother Seth on the line,” Melissa, Wilson’s assistant, replied. “He’s demanding to know where Dr. Wilson is; obviously, he’s not going to believe the ‘family emergency’ cover.”

“Handle it,” House replied almost absently, and shifted to hang the phone up.

“He’s called five times since yesterday; he’s sounding very desperate.”

Sitting up straighter, House grasped the receiver a bit tighter. “Look, Melissa, here’s how this goes. I am the doctor; you are the secretary. My job is to get Wilson diagnosed and cured, and your job is to handle the calls. Unless you think that’s too much for your tiny brain to cope with.”

“Look, Greg,” she replied, with tightly controlled vehemence, “since eight a.m. yesterday I have fielded 210 calls, pages, and emails – and that’s not even counting the spam that went straight to trash. It’s Saturday, which I most emphatically do not have to work, and still I am handling the weepy med student, the irate Board member, the battling nurses, the drug rep claiming to be a long-lost college buddy, the obnoxious gold-digging hag Dr. Wilson went on a blind date with last week, and all the anxious patients and their families. You will take care of the desperate brother, or I’ll be telling Dr. Cuddy just exactly what you’re hiding in your office supplies budget.”

House threw the file down on his desk in disgust. “I knew it was a mistake to have you process my expense reports,” he muttered. “Fine.”

He shifted the phone to his other ear as Melissa said, “I have Dr. House on the line for you, Mr. Wilson. He’ll be able to help.”

“Dr. House? Greg, right?” Seth called anxiously.

“Seth, hi. What do you need?”

“Where’s Jimmy? Why isn’t he answering his cell? Why hasn’t he called me back?”

“Well,” House began, and then stopped. Wilson didn’t talk to his family much, so he hadn’t bothered to come up with a lie for them. Normally House was adept at quick-thinking falsehoods, but this situation was draining his strength.

Not waiting for a real response, Seth pressed on. “We have to tell Mom. She deserves to know what’s happened to her son.”

“So Wilson’s called you?” House puzzled over when that would have happened, and why Wilson hadn’t mentioned it.

“Yeah, two nights ago. Just the bare details, made me promise not to tell our parents yet, hung up, and I haven’t been able to reach him since. I can’t keep this a secret any longer, Greg. I’ve got to tell Mom and Dad so they can go get him.”

Panic started to flutter in House’s throat at the thought of Wilson being moved to a different hospital, away from Princeton. He had medical proxy; he should have legal rights to keep Wilson here, but a judge might side with distraught parents –

Seth’s voice broke into his thoughts. “And the memorial service, I don’t know what we’ll do for that. It’s been over a week, that’s not good, but I suppose it’s extenuating circumstances because the police couldn’t identify the body until Thursday. Lot of David Wilsons in the U.S., I guess.”

“I guess,” House echoed, adrenaline flushing away and making him weak. Seth didn’t know about Wilson; he was talking about Wilson’s missing brother. Dead brother, now. He flashed back to Saltzman’s theory about Wilson’s breakdown: an acute emotional trauma. This would definitely qualify.

“Seth, I have to go.”

An angry snort came over the line. “Where is Jimmy? He can’t just stick me with this!”

House was suddenly furious. “Did he give you the contact information for the police who have your brother?”

“Yes.”

“Then you deal with it, Seth! Stand up; be a man. Jimmy shouldn’t always have to be the one taking care of everything, bailing you out, cleaning up your messes. Did you ever think that just one time he might need some support?”

“What?” Seth sounded truly bewildered. “When have I ever not –”

House dropped the receiver vaguely near the base and took off.

* * *

He cornered Saltzman just outside her office. “When’s your next session with Wilson? And where?”

“Five minutes, in his room,” she replied. “Why?”

“I’m joining you.” They were walking down the hall as they spoke; House had to stop briefly to let a nurse pass by.

“I can’t let you into a patient’s private session.”

House scoffed. “I’m reading all the notes. What’s the difference?”

Saltzman’s indignant glare reminded House briefly of Cameron. “For one, Dr. Wilson, believing you to be dead, doesn’t know you’re reading the notes. And second –”

House cut her off as they reached Wilson’s door. “Pfft. He wants me in the session; he’ll tell you that. But more importantly, you’ll let me in because I know what caused Wilson to jump the rails Thursday. His brother David, the one who’s been missing, died.” Raising an eyebrow at her, House continued, “Pretty significant, don’t you think?” and then pushed into Wilson’s room.

“Hey, buddy; I’m back!” he called.

Wilson gave him the briefest of glares before turning his attention fully on Saltzman. “Doctor,” he said, extending his hand and smiling charmingly.

 _What’s he want now?_ House couldn’t help but think.

“I’m feeling much better,” Wilson continued. “The hallucinations have stopped. I haven’t seen House in almost twenty-four hours.”

“You saw me this morning!” House protested. “And, you liar, you told me you believed I was alive.”

Still smiling at Saltzman, Wilson did his best not to react to House’s outburst, but the increasing tension in his shoulders told the true story. “So,” he said, tilting his head, “I was thinking after this session we could talk about transitioning to outpatient care.”

Saltzman pulled a chair closer to where Wilson was sitting on the bed, and sat down. “Dr. Wilson, I appreciate that you’d prefer a different environment. But I’m not sure you’re ready yet. I don’t think we’ve fully explored the issues that brought you here. Your brother, for instance.”

He regarded her for a few moments, his eyes as soft and alluring as House had ever seen them. When Saltzman’s expression refused to budge from professional detachment, Wilson frowned and looked away. “You’re not going to discharge me today, no matter what I say, are you?”

“That wouldn’t be best, no.”

“Fine. I’ll quit pretending I don’t see him, then. House, come here.”

House almost laughed as he walked over to Wilson’s bed. He was slowly getting used to Wilson being bossy, and found himself surprised that he didn’t mind it too much. It was certainly better than the passive-aggressive scheming and lecturing.

As he sat on the bed, Wilson pushed him around until he was seated against the headboard with his legs slightly spread. Wilson then reclined back against House, halfway between lying and sitting, his back to House’s chest. His final step was pulling House’s arms around himself.

House couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat like that, wrapped around another person, sharing their warmth. It was surprisingly pleasant and surprisingly not all that strange. He might miss this when he wasn’t dead any more.

“Comfortable?” House and Saltzman asked at the same time, and House smirked.

“Yes,” Wilson replied simply. “You want me to talk about my brother David, right?”

Wilson talked as if he had only ever been waiting for someone to ask the question. For over thirty minutes, he described what David had been like as a child, as a teenager, as a young adult. He explained how he’d felt about his brother at each stage, how he’d reacted to the things his brother had done, how hard he had tried to help. House felt a chill as Wilson talked about the way he’d felt abandoned by David, not only when he’d fled from the psychiatric facility, but years before then, when he’d spiraled into a world of drugs and alcohol that young Jimmy hadn’t been able to understand.

“And then on Thursday,” Wilson said, and House held him tighter. Wilson breathed in a giant, gasping breath and then blew it out slowly. He stroked House’s bicep with his thumb as he continued, “I got the call I’d been both expecting and dreading for years. The police in Dade County, Florida, had found David dead on the floor of a little motel on the very outskirts of Miami, almost in the Everglades.”

Wilson’s voice was starting to hitch after every few words. House could hear the tears in his throat even without seeing his face.

“He overdosed on pills and alcohol – probably not an accident, they said.” House closed his eyes and squeezed Wilson gently. “He’d left an envelope,” Wilson continued slowly, “with just my name and Princeton, New Jersey on the front, but they can’t tell from the content if the letter was a suicide note. When they read it to me, it didn’t sound like one. Just… crazy David, telling me the news.”

At that, Wilson hunched over and covered his face with both hands. Without thinking, House dropped a kiss to the crown of Wilson’s head, and then left his face there, pressed into Wilson’s hair.

“At least he was warm. That’s what I kept thinking, as they were telling me how we could come and get his body. At least David was warm when he died.”

They sat in silence for a moment, until Wilson suddenly stiffened and pulled away from House. He moved to the very end of the bed and sat there, legs dangling over the edge, staring at the floor. House felt oddly empty.

“Dr. Saltzman?” Wilson asked.

“Yes?” she prompted.

Wilson didn’t turn toward Saltzman, just wiped his face with both hands in a quick, sharp gesture. House wanted to reach for him but held back.

“House is really alive, isn’t he? You can see him there on my bed, can’t you?”

“Yes.” Saltzman’s voice seemed to be meant to be soothing, but it was grating House beyond all measure.

“He’s been alive all along. But you didn’t tell me that,” Wilson replied. “You let me act like an ass.” His head sank lower.

Saltzman had stretched toward Wilson, even though he was refusing to look. She patted the bed just behind him. “You needed to believe that for some reason. It was better to let you continue to believe.”

“Right.” Wilson’s head snapped around toward Saltzman; House could see in profile that the tears and wiping had left his cheeks red. His eyes, however, were ablaze. He was as angry as House had ever seen him. “Everybody out. I need to be alone.”

“Dr. Wilson, we have ten more minutes in our session –”

The voice of reason didn’t seem to be cutting it with Wilson. “Out!” he spat, his teeth clenching and grinding.

Standing up, Saltzman tried again. “Dr. Wilson –”

Wilson stood, brought himself up to his full height, and glared down at her. “I’m not having an episode, Dr. Saltzman. I’m just garden-variety upset about my brother’s death and being lied to by my therapist and my not-dead-yet-but-soon-will-be best friend. I’d appreciate the two of you leaving the room before I say something I’ll regret.”

Saltzman left the room then. It took House a minute to scoot over to the side of the bed and get up. Wilson passed him his cane with a glare and then turned away.

“I didn’t lie to you, Wilson. Not at any time yesterday or today. And you didn’t lie to me. How does that feel?” House watched Wilson’s back, marveling at how much he could read there.

“Since when do you want to talk about feelings?”

House smirked, and poked Wilson’s lower back with his cane. “I don’t. But I’ve found out it’s not so bad listening, as long as it’s you. You can’t tell Cameron, though. There’s no way I could put up with that outpouring.”

Wilson’s shoulder twitched; House knew he’d gotten a smile out of him.

“Go on, get out, House. I really do want some time alone.”

House sauntered toward the door. “See you tomorrow.”

“Come back tonight,” Wilson replied, his back still to House. “I’ll buy you dinner.”

Outside Wilson’s room, Saltzman was waiting for him with a grave look. “Losing trust in a therapist can be a very traumatic event for a patient… Why are you grinning?”

House didn’t even try to contain his glee. “My boy’s back,” he crowed. “You’ll be discharging him by tomorrow at the latest.”

Saltzman sighed. “We’ve only just begun to scratch the surface of Dr. Wilson’s issues. He’s going to need significant time to work though the traumas he’s experienced –”

With a wave of his hand, House cut her off. “Of course. Which he can do on an outpatient basis. Just find him someone to gab to and set up the appointments. A weekday mid-afternoon would be best, so I can miss Clinic hours to take him.”

He was five steps down the hall when a thought occurred to him. He turned back and saw that Saltzman was still standing there, shaking her head. “Hey,” he called back, “tell Wilson I’ll see him this evening. And remind him to call Seth.”

* * *

The next day was sunny, bright, and not all that cold for the beginning of March. A perfect day, House thought, to escort one’s best friend out of the loony bin. He tried not to smile too widely, so as not to frighten Wilson.

He looked over at his friend, who was buttoning up his jacket. “What now?”

Sighing, Wilson replied, “They’re going to release David’s body to Seth tomorrow, and then the service will be Tuesday. Will you go with me?”

House nodded and started toward the parking lot. “Sure.”

“Then after that,” Wilson continued, matching House's strides as always, “I don’t really know what I’m going to do. Maybe stay with my parents.”

House nodded again. He’d have to be careful not to turn into a total bobble-head. “That’d be good, for you to visit them. Then I think you should come home.”

“House,” Wilson warned.

Stopping, House peered intently into Wilson’s eyes, trying to pin him. “I thought we covered this. Were you lying about what you consider home?”

Wilson looked away and ducked his head. “I was confused; I –”

“Stop thinking about what you should say. Were you lying?”

“I –” Wilson straightened and looked House in the eye. “No.” He seemed to have found his resolve again; House sent up a silent thank-you that Wilson’s tenacity hadn’t vanished with the delusion.

“Then it’s settled,” House replied, and bent to unlock his car door.

Wilson hadn’t moved toward the passenger side. When House looked up, Wilson was making the superhero gesture, hands on hips. “You want me to live on a couch?”

“I’ll buy you a pullout,” House promised. “Or we’ll move, get a bigger place, one that can accommodate both a piano and a dining room table.”

Wilson raised an eyebrow skeptically. “And we’ll live together indefinitely.” Tenacity was one thing; now Wilson was getting downright pugnacious. But House was still enjoying it.

“‘Indefinitely’ is not a very settled word. ‘Permanently’ doesn’t work, either - too much of a frozen feeling. How about ‘abidingly’?”

“It’s a good word. And a nice thought. But –”

House stepped closer to Wilson and put a hand on his shoulder. “Look, right now you need stability and support. We both know I’m godawful at supplying both of those, but you’ve somehow figured out how to take them from me. So let’s go with it.”

“And what do you get out of it, Mother Teresa?”

“My life’s less boring when you’re in it.” House squeezed Wilson’s shoulder and then let go. “So I want you around a long time.”

“Abidingly?” Wilson asked, and a smile was threatening to burst out.

“Yep.”

Wilson had finally opened the passenger door, but he stopped before getting in. “This probably isn’t a good idea.”

House moved to his door. “Nothing great was ever a good idea.”

“That doesn’t make any rational sense.”

“You’d know.” He smirked and ducked into the driver’s seat. It was time to take his best friend home.


End file.
